The Beginning
by thereigatesquire
Summary: The beginning. The first case. When Sherlock met Lestrade. ONE-SHOT


**Hey everyone! This is kinda how I picture Lestrade and Sherlock's first case going. Enjoy!**

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The Beginning

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"The name's Sherlock Holmes," the young man called as he strode away, dark coat billowing behind him. The rest of Lestrade's team ignored him or rolled their eyes in disgust, but Greg Lestrade continued to watch the young man in awe. As the boy was turning a distant corner, Lestrade saw him suddenly stumble, collapsing against a wall.

"Donavan!" Lestrade shouted. "Wrap this up! I've got to go take care of something." He ran down the street, towards the thin figure leaning against the side of a building.

oooooo

The case was rather odd. The wife of an MP (name withheld for privacy), aged 42, was found dead on Albert Bridge in the early morning, the victim of an apparent homicide. All suspicions pointed toward the maid, Grace Dunbar, who had been found with extra bullets in her closet. The wife was also found with a note reading "I will be at Albert Bridge at nine o'clock. G. DUNBAR." Lestrade and his team had been called to take one final look at the bridge crime scene before the investigation wrapped up.

o

"Anything to report, Anderson?" Lestrade asked the new forensics officer.

The man shook his head. "We haven't discovered anything new. I think we've found everything there is to find."

A deep voice sounded from behind them. "I thought you called yourself a forensicist?" Anderson and Lestrade both wheeled around to stare at a stranger who was crouching beside their crime scene. "You, in fact, have missed everything of importance."

"What the- who the blazes are you?" Lestrade demanded. "This is a secure crime scene for official officers only."

The stranger scoffed and stood up. Lestrade got a look at his face. To his surprise, the man was quite young, probably around 21 or so. He was tall, had very high cheekbones and a mop of black curls. He was also thin to the point of emanciation, and the long dark coat he was wearing enveloped him completely. "Yes, well 'official officers' have bungled up the whole thing, haven't they?" the stranger said mockingly.

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked cautiously. He really ought to just kick the young man out, but something about his masterful manner caused Lestrade to wait and hear him out.

"Well," the young man began, "I assume you think this 'Grace Dunbar' is guilty?" He gestured to the note Anderson has collected and laid out as evidence.

"Yes," Anderson replied. "I mean, all the evidence points to her!"

"Well, that does seem to be the case, doesn't it?" the man sneered. "You, like most 'professionals' at Scotland Yard, are _seeing _but not _observing._ Look here," he gestured to a small mark on the side wall of the bridge. "Do you see this chipped spot? It's fresh. The cleaner, whiter stone shows through. It took some violence to do that. In a curious place, too. Whatever caused it came not from above but from below, for you see that it is on the lower edge of the parapet."

"But it's at least fifteen feet from the body!" Lestrade exclaimed in confusion. He then checked himself. Why was he even listening to this random kid?

Said kid continued. "Yes, it is, isn't it? We'll come back to it." He spun around erratically to point at the note Anderson had collected as evidence. "Now, here's another point against your accusation of Ms. Dunbar. If Ms. Dunbar really had written that note and given to the victim, why would that victim be found clutching the note tightly in her hand? It's not like the victim needed to refer back to it. It's a rather simple message, isn't it? 'I will be at Albert Bridge at nine o'clock. G. DUNBAR' if I'm not mistaken, and I know I'm not. One very likely reason is that the victim _wanted _you to find the note, in order to incriminate Ms. Dunbar. This fits nicely with the third and most striking point: the bullets found in her closet."

Anderson scoffed. "What do you mean 'striking'? That's the most obvious piece of evidence we've got against Grace Dunbar!"

The stranger rolled his eyes. "Yes, a bit _too _obvious, don't you think? Now, you've claimed this to be a planned homicide, based on the finding of the note. What potential murderer would then hide extra bullets in her own closet? No, I find this to be a most unlikely series of events."

"What do you propose happened then?" Anderson sneered, crossing his arms arrogantly.

"The victim committed suicide."

"Suicide?" Lestrade exclaimed. "How is that possible? There's no trace of a weapon around here!"

"Ah, and that's where you're wrong. In fact, that mark was caused by the murder weapon. Allow me to demonstrate. May I borrow a gun, Inspector?"

Lestrade was surprised at this stranger's audacity. "No! Like I'm just going to hand over a bloody gun!"

The young man sighed. "Oh well, I'll make do then." He dashed off towards some trees at the end of the bridge, leaving Lestrade and Anderson stunned. He returned a few minutes later with a rock and a sturdy tree branch shaped like an L. He pulled a length of string from his pocket and tied it to the rock and the stick. "Now watch." Holding the tree branch firmly, he tossed the rock off the side of the bridge so it hung suspended. He held the branch up to his head as if it were a gun, then mimicked the firing sound and released the branch. It was jerked sideways as the weight of the rock pulled it towards the edge of the bridge. It slammed into the bridge's side, then fell over the edge, into the river. The stranger smirked at Lestrade. "So you see what occurred, then?"

Lestrade was flummoxed. "What do you mean—" he started to ask as he walked over to the railing. Then, he saw the mark the stick had made on the parapet. It was exactly the same as the other mark! Lestrade gasped as the realization hit him. "You mean the 'victim' was behind all of this? She planted bullets in the closet, wrote that note, rigged up this system, then killed herself, all to frame Ms. Grace Dunbar? Oh! and if we dredge the Thames right here we should find—"

"The actual gun, yes," the stranger said with a pleased look. "Well, I trust that you and your force are not incompetent enough to mess up the case _now_, so I'll take my leave." He turned and started to stride away.

"Wait a bloody moment!" Lestrade shouted after him. "What in the world just happened? How did you know all of that? I don't even know your bloody name!"

The stranger paused for a moment, then continued walking. "The name's Sherlock Holmes," the young man called as he strode away, dark coat billowing behind him.

oooooo

When Lestrade reached the collapsed Sherlock Holmes, he immediately pulled out his mobile to phone for an ambulance. However, the recumbent man stopped him with trembling hand. "Don't," he warned weakly.

"What?! Why shouldn't I? You could be having a stroke or a heart attack or something!"

"No, it's nothing like that," Sherlock mumbled.

"What's going on, then?"

Sherlock grimaced and turned his head away from Lestrade, almost in an ashamed manner, though from what little Lestrade knew of Sherlock already, that wasn't a common feeling for him.

"It's the cocaine, coupled with a lack of food, most likely," he murmured quietly.

Lestrade jumped back in surprise. "What!? You do illegal drugs? And when is the last time you ate?"

"I'm not sure. Two or three days ago."

Lestrade stood there composing himself for a minute. When he had taken a few deep breaths, he continued in a calm manner, "You know, I should arrest you for doing cocaine, but I'm not going to on account of the help you gave me back there. I do insist, however, that you come with me and I'll take you back to my house and we can fix you up. Is that okay?"

Sherlock grunted his approval.

"Alright, here, let me help you up." Lestrade carefully lifted the slight man from the ground. He really didn't weigh anything. Slowly, they made their way to Lestrade's car.

oooooo

When they arrived at Lestrade's townhouse, Lestrade helped Sherlock up the stairs and settled him on the settee. He got him a blanket and went to the kitchen to fix him some tea. He also grabbed some biscuits and crackers he found in his cupboard. Lestrade stayed with the weakened young man, neither of them saying a word, until they both eventually fell asleep. When Lestrade woke up in the morning, Sherlock had vanished. Lestrade slowly got ready for work, wondering if he'd ever see the strange Sherlock Holmes again.

oooooo

A week or so later, Lestrade got called out to go to another crime scene, this time at an old flat on North Gower Street. As he was examining the body, a baritone voice from behind him called, "Excuse me, what _are _you doing to the evidence, Anderson? I thought you called yourself a forensicist!"

Lestrade smiled.

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**Thanks for reading! Reviews, critiques, thoughts: anything is welcome! Also, anyone recognize the case? ;)**


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